Chapter Twenty-Three - Hannah
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hannah
HANNAH HAD BEEN fine all day.
She'd gone to work, stayed focused, answered emails. She'd eaten lunch without feeling like she was swallowing glass. She'd been fine.
Until she wasn't.
She was searching for a sweater where her clothes were hanging in Mia’s guest closet when she found it.
Navy blue, soft with wear. A tiny bleach stain near the hem where she'd once leaned against the kitchen counter, not noticing the spill until it was too late.
Her favorite. The one she used to steal from Daniel's side of the closet.
She pulled it down, and the scent hit her immediately—his shampoo, his cologne, him—it knocked the air from her lungs.
Grief ambushed her, fast and cruel as a sucker punch. Her fingers curled into the fabric, clutching it like something drowning. She'd been fine. She had been fine.
Now she stood barely breathing, undone by a smell.
God. How pathetic.
And just like that—grief gave way to rage.
Hot and sharp, it surged through her, turning her fingers into fists.
Fuck that.
She stared at the sweater—at the threadbare softness, the faint stain like a scar—and suddenly wanted to tear it in half. Rip it until it was useless, until it couldn’t cling to her anymore.
Because how dare it still smell like comfort?
How dare he ?
After what he’d done—after who he’d done—it should’ve smelled like bleach and betrayal. Not home.
She tossed the sweater back onto the shelf with more force than necessary, her hands shaking. She had been the one who loved fully. Who believed. Who kept trying.
And what did she get in return?
A man who fucked someone thinner, someone hotter, someone younger.